“I am afraid, Mullings,” he said as the car stopped in front of his club, “that the kindly gentleman with whom we spent last night has repudiated his obligations. He refuses to meet the bill I gave him for your services. Just wait here a moment.”
He went inside, returning in a few moments with a folded cheque.
“Round the corner, Mullings, and an obliging fellah in a black coat will shovel you out the necessary Bradburys.”
The man glanced at the cheque.
“Fifty quid, sir!” he gasped. “Why—it’s too much, sir.... I...”
“The labourer, Mullings, is worthy of his hire. You have been of the very greatest assistance to me; and, incidentally, it is more than likely that I may want you again. Now, where can I get hold of you?”
“13, Green Street, ’Oxton, sir, ’ll always find me. And any time, sir, as you wants me, I’d like to come just for the sport of the thing.”
Hugh grinned.
“Good lad. And it may be sooner than you think.”
With a cheery laugh he turned back into his club, and for a moment or two the ex-soldier stood looking after him. Then with great deliberation he turned to the chauffeur, and spat reflectively.